Page 31 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“I can’t say I’ve had much luck on the dating front since I moved back. The last girl I asked out told me she’s not free until September,” Quentin says. Henry and Erving laugh at what they believe is a self-deprecating joke. I narrow my eyes as Quentin meets my gaze. “If you need a partner, I’m at your service.”

Erving claps a hand on each of our shoulders, giving an enthusiastic squeeze.

“I love a good show of solidarity,” Erving grins, as if it’s already settled. “That’s what Freeman Maxwell Lewis is all about! I’ll find Ramona now and put you both on the list. It’ll be fun.”

***

As we shuffle towards the dock, I am increasingly certain that this is an attempt by Erving to undermine me. He’s never looked so jovial about anything. I just need to figure out which angle he’s playing.

“You don’t seem excited about this,” Quentin observes.

“We agreed not to socialize outside of work.”

“Are you trying to pretend that either of us is here for a reason besides work?”

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just attempt to loophole your way into getting in this boat with me.”

“Look, you want to win. I want to spend at least half an hour of this evening not making smalltalk with my grandfather’s many, many professional contacts. Do you know how many times you can repeat facts about yourself before they start to sound fake?” He makes a face, imitating his grandfather’s boastful tone. “Class five rapids.”

I give him an unsympathetic shrug. “What’s your point?”

“My point is we could use each other.”

Use each other.

His choice of words buzzes under my skin in an annoying way. I adjust my simple necklace, my hair, the lime garnish on the rim of my drink. I survey the choice of canoes.

“I’ll have you know I’m here to win. If you get in this boat, I expect a genuine effort at winning. And if you do happen to stay out of my way long enough for us to secure said win, I expect you to let me choose what we do with the prize money.”

“I love it when you’re bossy,” he says. “Do you also need me to sign my life away or can you take my word for it?”

I refuse to return his smirk.

“Just get in the damn boat,” I mutter.

He motions down the boardwalk. “After you.”

We choose a bright, mint blue canoe close to the end of the dock. I settle into the front, and the little boat bobs precariously for a moment as Quentin positions himself behind me. We push off and cut a line through the gently rippling water. After a few sloshing strokes, I realize we’re veering towards the bank. I sink my paddle more deeply into the water.

“What are you doing?” I call over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he counters.

Our trajectory is haphazard, and I’m worried we’re going to crash into another boat. Eventually, the couple in our path gets the hang of it and sails away. We do not. I watch in frustration as other boats cruise easily across the lake.

“You’re supposed to be good at this,” I hiss.

“You’re supposed to be trying to win,” he argues.

“I am trying to win,” I spit back irritably. “What exactly are you doing?”

This initial grace period, as the race coordinator explained, is to give everyone a chance to acclimate to the water. It’ll be about ten minutes before they’ll text us the parameters of the competition. There’s no starting line or finish line, so it can’t be a typical race. I’m trying to figure out the possible scenarios that we’ve gotten ourselves into but fall short. I check my smartwatch to ensure that no messages have come through. Ten minutes is a long time to be stuck in a canoe, drifting in choppy circles, with Quentin.

“Move your hand to the top of your paddle blade,” he instructs. “Dig deep enough that you touch the water. We need to get up on a plane.”

“I know how to do it,” I argue.

“Well, the way you’re doing it is going to make us lose.”

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